by George Baxt
“Tell us about Lacey Van Weber.” Woollcott’s pince-nez dropped from the crown of his nose, dangling beneath his double chins from the chain around his neck. He leaned back and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief.
Kaufman said to Mrs. Parker, “I didn’t know you knew Lacey Van Weber.”
“I don’t. I just happened to read an article about him in the Graphic. It was illustrated. He’s quite good-looking, with kind of movie star looks. Now, let me see … ,” she said, pursing her lips and adjusting the velvet bracelets, “… he seems to be unmarried and available, apparently quite wealthy, knows everybody who’s anybody, and there was a soupçon of a hint that he could have connections with the mob.”
“Which mob?” asked Woollcott.
“I haven’t the vaguest idea. There are so many of them. I suppose you just take your pick. For example, we know one of Texas Guinan’s girls was at his party and everybody knows Larry Fay’s behind Texas.”
“They’re lovers,” said Kaufman.
“There you go,” said Mrs. Parker agreeably, “so he’s more than just behind her. And one of Polly Adler’s girls was there, so whoever she’s linked to … well, is she linked to anyone?”
“Polly insists she hasn’t any mob connections. She runs a good house and without any outside interference.” Kaufman was standing at a mirror trying to tame his hair.
“What else about Van Weber?” prodded Woollcott. “Anything juicy, scandalous, where does he come from?”
“The article hinted he was from a titled British family, although Van Weber strikes me as more Germanic than English.”
“Maybe it’s not his real name,” said Kaufman.
“That’s a thought. Jot that down, Alec.” Alec dutifully made a note while Mrs. Parker continued. “In addition to his penthouse on Central Park South, he lives in a mansion in East Cove out on Long Island. He has a swimming pool, tennis courts, a golf course, a landing field. It seems he’s also a licensed pilot … something like two dozen in help not counting additional servants hired for his parties. He maintains an office on Fifth Avenue in the mid-Thirties where presumably he waxes wealthy. There seems to be no particular light of love in his life, and until about a year ago, nobody had ever heard of him.”
“You’re kidding,” said Kaufman.
“Oh, not at all. It’s what’s written in the article, not that you can ever believe or trust much of what is printed in the Graphic. But from what I can gather, Mr. Lacey Van Weber, like Mrs. Stowe’s Topsy, ‘jes’ growed.’ Don’t you get the feeling that, by some miracle, he’s the figment of someone’s imagination who just happened to take human form? I think he’s fascinating.
“Oh, dear,” said Woollcott, “Dottie is in danger of falling in love in absentia.”
“I’d love to meet him. I’d love to meet anyone who’s sexy and sinister. In fact, I’d just love to meet anyone. I can’t stand it when my emotions are gathering dust. That house in East Cove has twenty bedrooms.”
Queried Woollcott, “Is that a statement Or a challenge?” Kaufman was at one of the windows, standing forlornly like a derelict ship waiting to be claimed for salvage.
“Just think about him,” persisted Mrs. Parker. “A man arrives in the city from out of nowhere and in the brief course of a year captures the imagination of the populace. He claims no major accomplishments, he hasn’t discovered fire or invented the wheel, he’s not a lionized hero …”
“Except perhaps to his butler,” interjected Woollcott.
“… and yet now when he snaps his fingers, just about anybody who’s anybody jumps.”
“Gangsters, whores, showgirls, crooked judges, that’s anybody who’s anybody?” Kaufman shook his head sadly and plunged his hands into his trouser pockets.
“That could be the tip of the iceberg.” Mrs. Parker was beaming. In the brief course of an hour she had run the emotional gamut from deep tragedy to titillating melodrama. She was enjoying herself enormously. “After all, out there in East Cove you’ve got the elite of society. La crême de la crême. I’ll bet every society matron and sub-matron including their virginal daughters wearing their most expensive deflowered prints are giving bloody battle to see who can fill their dance cards with Mr. Van Weber’s name. You know, East Cove is not too far from Great Neck. The Lardners have a home in Great Neck. We could get ourselves invited out to the Lardners’ this weekend, Alec. Then by some subterfuge or other, drive over to East Cove and invade Van Weber’s kingdom.”
“What are you carrying on about?” huffed Woollcott.
“It’s necessary to meet the man if we’re to solve the murder of that poor creature decomposing in the bedroom. You have to be interested—why else take those copious notes?”
“Well, of course I’m interested. But actual physical participation?”
“We’re in a position to accomplish a hell of a lot more than the police. We’re celebrities. Van Weber devours celebrities. After a steady diet of whores, gangsters and the perversely corrupt, I’m sure he’s starving for a rich helping of culture. I’m sure he’s thirsting to meet people like us and our peers. I’ll bet he’d adore to swap funnies with Benchley and Broun, share his opinion of the Barrymores in The Jest...”
“I don’t think I’d give a damn to hear what he thinks of them in The Jest," exploded Woollcott.
“I think Dottie’s right,” Kaufman interrupted softly but distinctly. “I think the guy’s a direct line to Ilona’s murder.”
“And Valentino?” Mrs. Parker was trilling again.
“If he was murdered,” responded Kaufman.
There was a knock at the door. Mrs. Parker leaped to her feet and admitted Jacob Singer. “Jacob, you’re a dear. Are you alone?” She looked past him but saw no one else in the hallway.
“I got a couple of men in the car downstairs. I figured I’d get the lay of the land first and then decide what’s needed. You cut your wrists again?”
“Just keeping in practice,” she replied while shutting the door. “You know Woollcott and Kaufman.”
“How do you do, gents.” The trace of the Gowanus Canal in the detective’s voice was about as much of Brooklyn as still clung to him. After ten years on the Manhattan police force (five of them in the elite group of detectives), Singer sought to improve himself both cosmetically and intellectually. He spent money on clothes and general good grooming and forced himself to read Dickens, Henry James, and on one brief depressing occasion, Tolstoy. He attended the theatre and concerts as often as possible, but the opera only under the threat of death. Mrs. Parker’s admiration for the man was honest and limitless. “Okay, Mr. Kaufman, what’s the problem?”
“I’ve got a dead woman in the bedroom.”
“I’ve had lots of those, but usually they get dressed and go home.”
They followed him into the bedroom. “Oh boy, oh boy. That is one ugly stiff.”
“She used to be quite beautiful,” said Kaufman. “Ilona Mercury.”
Singer pierced the air with a shrill whistle of astonishment. “I’d never guess. Would you believe just the other night I saw her in Ziegfeld’s revue, No Foolin’.”
“We believe you,” said Mrs. Parker.
Singer shot her a look. “No Foolin’ is the name of the show. It’s at the Globe.”
“Oh. I’ve been away.”
“Let’s get back to the other room. This is too depressing. Imagine a beautiful broad like that turning into such an ugly slab of meat. That’s life.”
“That’s death,” corrected Mrs. Parker.
In the living room, the foursome sat facing one another, while Singer heard Kaufman’s story. After Kaufman finished, the detective sat back and contemplated Mrs. Parker. “You want me to fix a cover-up.”
“Well, George certainly didn’t kill her. That body in there is just the unfortunate result of George’s misplaced generosity.”
“And if it turns out he did kill her, what then?”
“Why, he goes to the chair!” she shot back
gaily.
“I did not kill her,” insisted Kaufman. “What I’ve told you, Mr. Singer, is the truth.”
Singer rubbed his chin with the palm of a hand. “So you think maybe there’s some connection to this shindig where Valentino took sick. Boy, am I not looking forward to this investigation.”
Mrs. Parker sat up like an eager lapdog. “Why not?”
“Ahhhh, already there’s talk that there’s a cover-up going on in Valentino’s death. Like maybe he was poisoned, who the hell knows. He seemed healthy enough the day of the party.” He was on his feet and pacing the room. “So Ilona was his date that night. And Valentino lets go a blast at Dr. Horathy.”
“And Van Weber told somebody to get him a drink,” reminded Mrs. Parker.
Singer stared at her. “That could have been the poison, eh?”
“Why not?” interjected Woollcott. “At a crowded party like that, there must be countless opportunities to commit murder without being apprehended.”
Mrs. Parker snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it! Ilona Mercury saw whoever slipped Valentino the mickey and was blackmailing him!”
“Nice shot, Mrs. Parker,” said Singer affably, “but why bring him here? She could have shaken him down in her own place or some restaurant or some gin mill or a bench in Central Park.”
“Jacob, this apartment is something special,” said Mrs. Parker. “It certainly is to Mr. Kaufman.”
“Not any longer,” said Kaufman with an agonised groan.
“Don’t interrupt me, please. Ilona knows Mr. Kaufman well and therefore knows how special this apartment is. Whomever she brought here last night was someone special in her life. Obviously the feeling was one-sided. She may have been special to this person at one time, but no longer. For reasons we have to find out, she needed to be murdered.”
“It could have been accidental,” ventured Woollcott, “murder at the heat of passion.”
“At the heat of passion, dear,” said Mrs. Parker knowledgeably, “it may sometimes seem like murder, but it’s rarely fatal, unless one or the other partner suffers from a weak heart. Miss Mercury’s heart did not fail her, it was her trust in another human being. Now, Jacob, I think you’re in for a difficult time with this case.” Singer didn’t deny her prescience. He continued studying her with subdued admiration, wondering, if only briefly, if at some future time he might suggest she share with him a tumble in the hay. “You know how people in high places clam up before the police.”
“They do it in low places, too,” said Singer.
“Well, my dear, these people are more accessible to people like Alec and myself. We intend to investigate, you know, like ambassadors without portfolio. Of course everything we learn we’ll turn over to you.”
“Mrs. Parker,” said Singer, “we are all too familiar with your death wish. I don’t think you’re equipped to tackle the big boys.”
“The trouble with you, Mr. Detective, is that you overestimate you and underestimate me.”
“Maybe so, but I’m not underestimating people like Dr. Bela Horathy. He’s not exactly known for being conducive to good health and a long life.”
“So why haven’t you pulled him in?” asked Kaufman.
“On what charges? He’s a doctor. He’s licensed. Nobody’s caught him with his foot outside the law. And he’s got big connections.”
“Valentino accused him of being a drug pusher,” said Woollcott.
“Do you know any doctors who don’t prescribe drugs?” asked Singer. “Exactly. So it’s a Mexican standoff.”
“Horathy’s a Hungarian,” Mrs. Parker reminded them.
“You’re so sure?” asked Singer.
“Oh. I see. There’s some doubt.” Mrs. Parker smiled at the three men. “Wouldn’t the Immigration Department have something on him?”
“Sure. But that can be fixed, too. Mrs. Parker, we live in a world and in an era where everything can be fixed except the inevitable, which is death. Now let me tell you, if you and Mr. Woollcott want to stick your noses into this case, there’s nothing I can do to stop you, unless you get caught breaking and entering, something ignoble like that.” Ignoble, thought Mrs. Parker, he must be reading Victor Hugo. “But I want you to use excessive caution. I mean be really careful.”
“You know more than you’re telling us,” said a somewhat nervous Woollcott.
“No, I don’t. I just suspect more than I’m telling you.” He pointed to the bedroom. “That unfortunate lady ain’t the first to come to an untimely end from knowing all the wrong people. I’ll give you a tip. Find out who she was.”
“She was a Ziegfeld girl,” persisted Kaufman.
“But besides that, Mr. Kaufman, besides that. What else was she? She was also a Hungarian, right? Or so she says.”
“You could have cut her accent with a butter knife,” countered Kaufman.
“So what? Anybody can fake an accent. There was a lot of publicity about Ziegfeld importing her from Europe. I’ll see what I can find out there.”
“The poor thing,” interrupted Mrs. Parker, “surely she must have a family somewhere.”
“Probably peasants herding goats somewhere in the heights of the Carpathian Mountains,” suggested Woollcott.
“Or dirt farmers growing potatoes somewhere in the wilds of Idaho,” said Singer with a faint trace of a smile.
“So much for hyperbole,” said Mrs. Parker. “Alec and I will know what to do. Now then, how do you dispose of Miss Mercury’s body?”
“Well, first of all, my boys bring up a laundry hamper we got on the back seat of the car. We dump the lady in the hamper. Then we take her for a drive out to the wilds of Canarsie. For your general edification, that is a little village out in Brooklyn on the shores of Jamaica bay. I was born near there. It is not densely populated. The gangs drop most of their stiffs out there. It’s very convenient. Eventually, some innocent citizen of that venue will come across the body and hopefully yell for the cops. We then go through the tedious process of making an identification, then the tabloids cry ‘Murder,’ and then the investigation begins. Mrs. Parker, Mr. Woollcott, please don’t jump the gun and ask around who has murdered Miss Mercury until Miss Mercury’s body has been discovered and identified.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t dream of jumping the gun,” Mrs. Parker assured him.
“I would prefer to do nothing with guns at all,” added Woollcott.
“Come now, Alec. Guns didn’t frighten you in the war.”
“I had nothing to do with guns in the war, my dear Mrs. Parker.” Woollcott’s eyes were ablaze with indignation.
“Ah, guns are just phallic symbols,” advised Singer with a slightly superior look.
“Which is why Mr. Woollcott had nothing to do with them in the war,” said Mrs. Parker.
“Mr. Singer, what do I have to do? asked Kaufman.
Mr. Kaufman, I suggest you go home or go to a movie or do whatever you were planning to do. Me and the boys have a lot of work to do here before we remove the body. The apartment has to be dusted for prints and I would prefer you take nothing with you, but leave it in its pristine purity. I noticed there’s a handbag on the dressing table in the bedroom. I assume that’s the lady’s?”
“I suppose so,” said Kaufman.
Singer got the handbag from the bedroom and examined its contents in front of the others. He emptied them out on the dining room table. “Handkerchief.”
“Pretty pattern,” said Mrs. Parker. “That looks like an Alençon lace trimming. Expensive.”
“Compact case. Powder, lipstick, rouge, eyebrow pencil. Two sets of keys.”
“One of them belongs to this apartment,” Kaufman told him.
“Right. Take your pick, they’re no use to me.” Kaufman pocketed the keys. “Coin purse. Eighty-five cents. Bills.” He whistled. “There’s close to two G’s here.”
“Two thousand dollars?” asked Kaufman incredulously. “And I picked up the dinner check?”
“Men are such fools,” s
aid Mrs. Parker, and nobody took the trouble to disagree with her.
“Two thousand smackers indeed,” repeated Singer. “Well, who knows, maybe there’s something to your blackmail theory, Mrs. Parker.” She tried not to look smug. He enumerated the remaining contents of the dead woman’s handbag. “Powder puff.”
“Pink.” Mrs. Parker batted her eyelashes. “Isn’t that what someone called Valentino? The pink powder puff? And didn’t Valentino challenge the man to a duel?”
“What were the weapons to be?” asked Woollcott. “Salad forks at twenty paces?”
“You know, folks, about a week before Valentino died, he was operated on at Polyclinic Hospital for gastric ulcers and a ruptured appendix.”
“He didn’t do things by halves, did he?”
“Well, I’ll tell you Mrs. Parker, if he had been poisoned the night before at Van Weber’s party, the doctors would certainly have found some sign of it.”
“Maybe they did and were bought off.” Singer was almost mesmerised by her eyes, they burned into him so intensely. “Well, you said just about anyone can be bought off in this town. I’m sure doctors can. Certainly Bela Horathy is an example of that. Which of course boils their Hippocratic oath down to just another recitation piece.”
“I’m going,” announced Kaufman.
“How do I find you when I need you?” asked Singer.
Kaufman gave him his home phone number. “They’ll always know where I am. But how do I explain you to my wife when she starts wondering why the police are calling?”
“The same way you explain your strange absences,” suggested Mrs. Parker.
“Thanks,” said Kaufman to the three, “I really appreciate what you’re doing.”
After Kaufman left, Singer said, “Okay, folks. There’s no need for you to hang around. Let’s get downstairs so I can get my boys working.”
“The staff won’t suspect anything?
“No, Mrs. Parker, we know them and they know us. Kaufman isn’t the only unhappy husband with a hideaway. Let’s go.”
Mrs. Parker put her arm through Singer’s. “You’re a good man, Jacob Singer. I’m glad we’re friends.”
